For miles and miles, Philip trudges behind Murdoch into the hills. He has had to borrow some boots until his shoes come back from the cobblers and as most of the time they seem to be walking through a bog, his socks are quickly sodden and a mammoth blister is developing on his heel.

Elizabeth is right, it does clear up. Or at least the sullen clouds haul themselves sufficiently off the mountain tops to enable him to see the bleak hillsides stretching into the distance. At which point the misery of the rain seeping down his collar is replaced by the torment of midges swarming around his head.

You’ll love it. Wasn’t that what Elizabeth had said? She must have known what it would be like.

Suspecting some kind of test, Philip grits his teeth and soldiers on.

Meanwhile Murdoch walks ahead with a steady, untiring tread, apparently unbothered by midges or rain or anything else. His weathered face is unreadable beneath his tweed cap. Every now and then he stops and takes out binoculars to scan the hillside, which at least gives Philp a chance to try and ease the agonising rub of the rough sock on his blister.

It is a huge relief when Murdoch indicates that they should stop for lunch. Sitting with their backs to a massive boulder, they share a venison pie and a flask of tea. Murdoch is evidently not much of a one for conversation and Philip is so tired he is happy to sit silently and study the majestic sweep of the mountains, where subtle shades of gold and brown blend seamlessly with grey rocks and purple heather.

There is a kind of beauty to it, he grudgingly admits to himself, though frankly he would have preferred to admire it from his bedroom window.

‘It doesn’t look as if we’re going to see any deer today,’ Philip suggests at last, slapping at his neck where a crowd of midges are dive-bombing like a plague of Messerschmitts. He is hoping Murdoch will suggest they go back but the ghillie only finishes his mouthful of pastry before answering.

‘It’s a wee bit early to give up yet,’ he says. ‘Unless you want to, sir?’

‘No, no, of course not,’ says Philip hastily. ‘Let’s go on.’

***

‘Terrific,’ he says when Elizabeth asks him how he got on.

‘Any luck?’

For Philip the luckiest part had been the moment when Murdoch had finally decided there were no deer to be had that day. And then being met at the foot of the hill by a comfortably upholstered car to be driven back to Balmoral. Stripping off his sodden clothes and limping along the endless corridors to find tea laid out on a table in the drawing room: shrimps and scones, bannock cakes and hot sausage rolls. That had felt like luck.

‘Afraid not,’ he says.

‘Oh, poor you. Better luck tomorrow.’

About to take a bite of sausage roll, Philip pauses and looks at her more closely. ‘You knew what it would be like on the hill today.’ He pretends to scowl. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’